


A Stillborn Revolution Dies Twice

by Clockwork_Roses



Category: Hiveswap, Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Bulges and Nooks (Homestuck), Dark Web Shenanigans, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Depressing sex, Drug Use, Eye Trauma, Government Oppression, Guilt, Imperial Drones (Homestuck), Implied/Referenced Body Shaming, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Other, Porn with Politics, Power Play, Self-Harm, Social Commentary, Suicidal Thoughts, The Incident (Cirava Hiveswap), Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:02:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25277380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clockwork_Roses/pseuds/Clockwork_Roses
Summary: Several sweeps ago, Mallek joined a livestream on the dark web and witnessed an event that changed the course of his life, and the lives of many others.  And now, that event will be echoed in the present, as he responds to another cryptic message...(please check tags before reading)
Relationships: Mallek Adalov/Cirava Hermod
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	1. Mallek: Bitterly regard serendipity

You reject many of the standard beliefs and practices surrounding romance held by your species, upholding the sanctimony of serendipity among them. But even if you did not, you refuse to entertain the possibility that the scene now before you, and its twin within your memory, are the work of _serendipity_.

That would be a sick fucking joke.

Past and present flow out from the common points that anchor them; the same block, minimally altered over the intervening time, and the figure sprawled, bloodied, to one corner. Your perspective is different; that is the first split. Then, you sat at your husktop, seeing through the eye of a hacked camera, its gaze centered on an empty chair while the subject-unaware writhed barely within frame; now, you stand near the entrance to their hive, their prone form and the camera that had been your window both well within view.

The moment, potent in its duplication, stretches on longer than you intended.

You are here now, as you were there then, because of a fleeting notification that popped up on your screen. This time, a music stream you happened to have on in the background switched its description, for five seconds, from the usual cross-promotion and track info to “im gonna kill myself lmao.” That one, an invite had appeared from an anonymous source to join an event on the dark web, advertising illicit live streaming of a genuine official capture-or-cull.

Then, the journey from notification to the block; the figure in the corner; the abject horror dawning on you as you realized the significance of it all, was short, just a single click, an action taken out of naïve albeit somewhat morbid curiosity. Now, you made it deliberately; you had routed deliveries to the streamer before, and in a few swipes of your claws you had their location, and you traveled to them, here, knowing more or less the severity of what awaited you. Only in this instant, however, do you realize that the person you witnessed then and the one you rushed to save now are one and the same.

Serendipity can go fuck itself.

Twice, the initial shock is short-lived. You could’ve clicked away, then, but you didn’t; even though the purported cull-target survived, you knew from the start that you were watching something die and so you stayed; you sat vigil; you became a witness. You were aware, even then, that what you were watching was part of a larger story; that _this_ stream, _this_ victim were what they were for a reason. But you did not know that their story would come back to you, would bring you here.

You hurry to their side; they are still awake and demonstrate this by brandishing the knife, already wet with their own blood, in your direction. A glimpse at their inner forearms grants you a sick sense of relief; those cuts are meant to hurt, not to kill.

“hey;” you crouch down, hands up to look less threatening, “i != gonna hurt you; okay?”

“fuck… off,” they reply, pulling themself into a sitting position against the wall behind them, streaking gold across the floor as they move, teeth bared, one eye narrowed in pain and fear and anger.

You sat, watching, as they gouged the other out with their own claws and a knife very much like the one they are now holding, a little over a sweep and a half ago. You didn’t want it to be happening; you kept watching because looking away wouldn’t make it stop happening. They were at the very edge of the screen, sometimes only a leg or a shoulder, but never entirely out of frame. And so you saw, not the details, but the sudden jolt that gripped their body, followed almost an hour later by another; the swansong flare of psionics; the resulting digital interference; the uneven shudders that ran through their prone form in the wake of it.

They had succeeded, after a fashion; though that success was its own price. And it had yet to be proven. The drones had yet to make their appearance; the timer below the video kept counting down, and you continued to watch. You cried; hands clasped over your mouth, sobbing quietly, tears tracking slowly down your face.

This time, they’re the one who breaks down. Their palmhusk chirps a message, and they make a whimper-whine noise that you _never want to hear again_ and curl their knees up, burying their face in the crook of one arm; the one without the knife.

You glance down at the device.

\- <3 Thinking of heading your way, babe. <3 Make sure you’re presentable.-

You don’t recognize the sender, but you catch the color of the text. You get the idea. You know why this is happening, now.

You knew why that was happening then. As far as the public record went, as far as anyone said anything about it, it was just more internet bullshit drama. Petty rivalries and jealousy and who had grubsteak with whom over follower counts and personal accusations. That was a lie.

You knew the truth; that for all the attempts to extend the order of the hemospectrum onto the internet, things online were and always would be a little more anarchic. And it was possible for a lowblood who somehow still believed that they deserved better; one with quick wits and a sharp tongue; to begin to gain a following. Those events were possible, but they could not be tolerated.

You had not known them, but you had known of them. Maybe it wasn’t on purpose. Maybe they didn’t even realize. But regardless of their knowledge or intent, their actions were unacceptable, and their status as an internet celebrity made them a focal point, a star around which the forces of a discontent that did not even know its own name were pulled into orbit and began to take shape as you watched. And so, knowing your potential as an asset, you planned to join them.

That was why it happened.

Before they were a _leader_ , before it was a _revolution_ ; it had to be stopped. Not officially; it didn’t need to be. The leverages inherent to the accepted imbalances in the system acted as a mechanism to head off such necessity.

In petty retribution for daring to act as if they were a _person_ , with _rights_ , this lowblood internet star was maliciously reported to the imperial authorities by the highbloods they dared to insult by demanding fair treatment. But they were not reported on the grounds of any act of rebellion; they were reported as a psionic. They had no recourse.

Just as, now, they are left with no recourse when it comes to the indigo-blood messaging them. And until you showed up, only one means of escape; the one they were about to attempt when you arrived.

You cut to the chase. “C’mon; I can get you out of here;”

“why... the hell…?” they raise their head to glare at you, correcting the angle of the knife to point it directly at your chest.

Because…

Because then you were too late, and all you could do was watch as they suffered-- horribly-- at their own hand.

Because that changed you, took something from you, and this is what remains.

Because your apathy has worn thin, and this might be your last chance.

But that’s not what they’re asking.

“Saw your message; you != ready to give up yet;”

“cause you know all about me--”

You think maybe they were going to throw something on at the end there, but decided not to bother. Hard to downplay the severity of things when their voice is hoarse from crying and blood from their self-inflicted cuts is dripping down their leg.

“You = still pointing a knife at me; you = still willing to put up a fight;”

The knife, thankfully, remains pointed at you. You were worried for a minute there that they might decide to call bullshit on your powers of insight. Being held at knifepoint might start being a problem right about now, though. You inch closer, but to your dismay, the blade follows your movements, homing in on your throat. When you get close enough that the point makes contact, however, you meet little resistance; if anything, they’re drawing you closer, sliding the tip of the blade under your chin, tilting your head back to meet their eye as they draw themself taller until it leaves you looking up.

You stay like that for a while. You can almost meet their gaze, a cool flush spreading across your face. They smirk. “well shit… guess youre serious”

In spite of everything, you feel yourself grin in kind. “guess so;”

“huh,” they glance away, towards some part of the hive you haven’t been to or seen yet. “got some shit i gotta grab”

The knife is lowered and left unceremoniously on the ground. You help them to their feet; they’re reluctant to accept the help and stumble, which just ends with their weight full against you when you catch them.

“lmao,” they breathe against your neck, then, “fuck”

You don’t bother to comment.

They prove to be similarly capable of walking, which is to say, not very; you suspect they’re pretty high right now and honestly you don’t blame them. Between you and the wall, they head down the hall towards their respiteblock, leaving bright gold drops on the floor and smears on the wall as they go; the cuts on their arms are deep enough to still be bleeding; you don’t have time to do anything about it, now. After all, there’s a time limit, if you want to avoid a confrontation.

Then, the time limit had been of little consequence; they had some advance warning, and once it was clear that no other option remained to them, they had acted quickly and decisively; their preparations, such as they were, were finished long before the countdown was up. Below the video, the numbers ticked down to the drones’ inevitable arrival. For hours, they lay in the same position, more or less; visible from the shoulder down; still except for the occasional convulsion. They were unconscious, or nearly so.

When you arrive at their respiteblock, you make them sit down and tell you what to get from where. It’s the first thing you’ve told them to do and you’re worried that it’s all going to fall apart but it doesn’t. With their direction, you locate a cylindrical gripsack in the closet and make to pack a basic selection of clothes, but your attempts to navigate their wardrobe leave them deeply unimpressed.

“seems youre not really on my level here,” they observe, “like… vibing the moisturewave aesthetic”

You grin somewhat ruefully. “wouldnt expect to be; moisturewave != really my thing;”

Confusion or possibly disbelief creeps into their expression; you watch, bracing for the ensuing outburst; instead, they laugh.

“figures... right?” They let out a last huff of amusement at your expense. “whatever”

From there on out, they seem to regard your ineptitude with their personal style as a form of absurdist comedy. You don’t mind them laughing at you; not the worst reaction you could be getting, by far. There’s a hysterical edge to it, though.

Once they’re more or less satisfied, you throw the cylindrical gripsack over one shoulder and offer them the other to lean on as you make your way back towards the door. Some of their reluctance has dissipated; they establish a firm grip on your sweatshirt with both hands and lean into your side. You take this as permission to wrap your arm around them for support, and they do not dissuade you.

The two of you make it back to where this all started; you see it all from yet another angle. From this vantage, the corner where they lay, twice, is all but hidden; meanwhile, the door, hanging open as you left it, is clearly visible. Technically, you broke in, overriding their security system; given the circumstances, bothering to close the door behind you seemed irrelevant, irresponsible, even.

From the perspective of the hacked camera, the door had been obscured. When the timer underneath hit zero and the drones arrived, it all happened offscreen. The stream picked up the sound of their arrival; the target’s lusus shot across the screen like a pale comet, vanishing from the frame; the ensuing confrontation was not visible on the stream.

Their lusus never reappeared. You were left with few potential conclusions aside from the worst; this has not been disproven by anything you have observed now. A large nest occupies one corner of the ceiling, the one over the corner of the floor where they had gone, twice, when they had been left with only one terrible means of escape; there is no sign of the nest’s inhabitant.

Then the drone emerged, its shiny spiked shell hulking into view. If more than one had been sent, the others were never visible. Your bloodpusher beat in your throat as you watched. Everything that had happened; all the suffering you had witnessed; all that self-inflicted pain; all of it might have been rendered pointless in an instant.

But it wasn’t. The hum of the drone’s scan filled the audio of the stream, and then it stopped, and then the drone turned and left. It was over. The stream went dead, and you went back to your life.

“aw shit,” You feel them shift against your side as they gesture towards the husktop whose webcam setup was your first window into this space. “gotta keep my stream rolling”

Unprompted, they explain, “cant disappoint my fans lmao, lemme just… get that set up”

“sure;” you reassure them.

Depositing them in the chair of the husktop setup, you leave the gripsack within their reach; you are unsurprised when they stow their stash in the sack, attempting (badly) to conceal the act. You’re maybe the last person to give them a hard time about drugs; assuring them of that can wait, though.

While they make whatever online arrangements, you take the opportunity to address the entrance to their hive; you decide to rig up their doorbell to leave a little something behind for the indigo blood on their way here. Something _explosive_.

When both of you are finished, you gather up them and the gripsack of their stuff. You consider suggesting that they bring their palmhusk, but it chirps with another indigo-tinted message; they flinch against you, this time with a snarl; you think better of it. You leave behind their hive, the scene of these mirrored tragedies; this one, averted.

As you watched the drone vanish from the video stream, you had thought that one was averted as well; in part if not in whole. But over time, you came to understand; nothing could ever be so simple. In surviving their own potential culling, they were made into a living sacrifice; a herald to any who might dare to follow their example, and a means of measuring compliance.

To speak to them was forbidden. Not officially; it never had to be said, yet the taboo was firmly in place, the consequences for breaking it unspoken but understood. None broke it; you can only imagine that their own shock and bitterness at the betrayal served to further reinforce that barrier around them.

They persisted; they were allowed to limp on in the public sphere, but that permission was conditional, extended only so long as they played their assigned role and shaped themself into a mute monument to their own defeat; a defeat so thorough that the one who suffered it was not even permitted to acknowledge that a struggle had taken place.

That was how a revolution died before it ever lived.

Any thought you had of joining forces died with it. There was no one to join, and even if there had been, you would not have dared. For your own sake, yes; and this is what you remind yourself most often. But also, truly, because you knew, as you still know, that if you had ever been found to be working with subversive elements, others would be punished first for your transgressions; their blood would be on your hands.

On the ride back to your hive, necessity no longer ties the other troll to your side, but they stay there anyways; they curl up against you and either pass out or fall asleep. You worry about the cuts on their arms, but they hiss and resist when you try to get a better look; anyways, they’re done bleeding for the most part; you give up for the time being.

They lie across your lap and in that first quiet moment, you are struck by the sense that there is something nigh-miraculous about them. You have never witnessed anything so beautiful nor so wronged nor so committed to hanging onto everything that was taken from them. Some alchemic blend of awe and grief burns in your chest.

 _I can get you out of here_ ; you meant it sincerely, and you have acted faithfully to do so, and they are safe, with you, for now, but nothing can ever be so simple.

Serendipity is terribly cruel.


	2. Chapter 2

Cirava woke up lying on an unfamiliar loungeplank, their arms clean and bandaged. They let out a long, low rattle. The cuts below the neat wraps were making themselves known, and a dull ache drifted in and out of the general fog clogging their head.

Their recollections of the events earlier that night were keeping pace, more or less, with their apprehension of the current situation, keeping panic at bay. They were… safe, probably. Against all odds.

“oh hey; you = awake;”

They looked up and saw a troll they remembered-- somewhat-- from earlier emerging from elsewhere in the hive. He had kind of a punk thing going on, casual sweatshirt and jeans combo contrasting with all the ornamental face jewelry and immaculate winged eyeliner, his grin hovering between sly and sheepish.

Pulling themself into a somewhat vertical position, Cirava closed their eye gingerly. When they opened it, he was seated beside them, holding out a glass half-full of water. They reached out to take the glass and their fingers bumped against his. Neither said anything, but a spasm of complicated emotions flitted across his face. He ran a hand through his hair.

“guess i != really introduce myself; i = mallek; i sold you some gear a while ago;”

“right” Cirava replied. They grinned, attempting to keep the mood light, but the concern playing at the corners of Mallek’s eyes failed to vanish.

“so like... whats your deal” they went on, “you my crazy stalker now lmao”

As if in defiance of this question and the consequent possibility of being drugged, along with all the other potential reasons not to trust their host, they took a swig of the water. The cold of it hit their throat with a slight shock.

“nah i just;” He sighed. “this place = off the grid; no one = gonna find you here;”

Cirava arched one incredulous brow. “not exactly putting me at ease you know”

They finished the glass and held it up to signal as much to Mallek.

“dont sweat it; just leave it anywhere;”

They shifted to set the glass on the floor, their knee not-quite-accidentally rubbing against his. Light glinting off his piercings betrayed an otherwise subdued response. Sitting up, Cirava leaned in, resting a hand on his chest. They pressed their lips against his. He responded to that, too, and when they broke away, he didn’t pull back.

A slow grin played at the edges of his mouth. “this = kind of fucked up;”

“thats just how i roll”

They kissed him again and once more found reciprocation rather than resistance. Draping their arms over his shoulders, they deepened the kiss, only to shudder in surprise when they encountered the metal drop on his tongue. In a moment’s hesitation, the two caught ragged breaths. Then Cirava lay back on the loungeplank, pulling Mallek down on top of them.

Amid the confusion of lips, fangs, and tongues, the smooth solidity of the piercing was a point of fascination, and they chased it, willfully, fingers curling into the back of his sweatshirt. Clothes became increasingly an obstacle to the proceedings, and when the two next broke apart from one another, this had reached a tipping point. Mallek retreated nearly but not entirely far enough to enable the maneuver and in a fumbling tangle of hands, clothes were shed until both were naked from the waist up. That would be enough bare skin to work with for the time being.

The pair reclined once more, Mallek more aggressive this time, slightly, laying his weight against Cirava’s shoulder, as he wrapped his hand around their waist. Rather than meet their lips again, he bent down towards their chin, then their throat, the metal bead a punctuation to the cool wet of his tongue sliding over their skin. They panted, arching to meet his touch.

Cirava guided Mallek’s hand lower, fingers teasing at the waistband of their leggings. He looked down with an expression of deceptively innocent calm, resting his weight on one arm while his other palm caressed the jut of their hipbone, proving his wide eyes and gently parted lips a lie.

Another kiss, another fumbling of hands and clothes, and Cirava was free of the leggings, naked, urging Mallek’s hand between their legs. His motions here were more sure, practiced, and they were free to lie back and watch him. Backlit, the metal points were dark against his skin now, rather than bright, face shadowed but marked, perhaps more clearly than ever, by a persistent sweetness and vulnerability, hair halfway falling into his eyes.

His fingers running along their slit, tracing the lightly straining edges, swept their thoughts aside. This was it, this was what they wanted-- both of them. The cool of his fingers against their heat, the shuddering sigh as one claw dipped inside them, smooth and precise, following the same path as he trailed his hand back and forth against the glistening line, widening with every moment, every breath.

At last, or perhaps too soon, Cirava’s twin bulges slipped out, uncoiling into Mallek’s upturned palm and spilling over his wrist. A shudder of apprehension ran through them, and their attempt to conceal it proved fruitless. But Mallek did not recoil with confusion or disgust, rather, he leaned closer and kissed Cirava, teasing the tips of his forked tongue along their fangs.

They allowed themself to be reassured, leaning into his touch, a rasp sounding from the back of their throat as their bulges entwined around Mallek’s hand and arm. He answered in kind, fingers tangling with the paired shafts and following the roll of their hips as he stroked along their lengths.

“not your first time is it” Cirava breathed, “getting a handful of goldblood double bulge”

Mallek grinned wickedly. “not by a long shot;”

“figures”

Their bulges tugged him lower and he complied, sliding his hand down into their slit until the heel of his palm was massaging the base of their bulges, fingers curling into their nook. There was a relief to it, to being touched like this, to wanting and being wanted, never mind the physical pleasure. They canted their hips up into that point of contact, of two fingers caressing soft flesh.

“fuck,” they groaned. “forgot how good this shit feels… when i want it”

Mallek jerked back, eyes round with shock.

“when you WHAT?!”

Cirava scowled. “right so… can we just” They gave a little shrug. “pretend i didnt say that”

Mallek gave them a stern look. “that != possible;”

Cirava considered the situation. Their arms were still draped around his shoulders, and at some point, the cuts they had made had reopened and bled through the bandages, marking Mallek’s skin with fine streaks of ocher. An experimental tug did not bring him closer. Their bulges still had a hold on his hand, as well, but they weren’t willing to press their luck that hard just yet.

They tilted their head, pleading and enticing at once, “you really gonna be like that?”

“no; not really;” Mallek sighed, defeated and not entirely unhappy about it, but not completely mollified yet, either.

Bringing one hand to rest along his jaw, they used the other to pull him down, kissing him and grinding their hips against his unresponsive fingers.

Lips by his ear, they murmured, “i just wanna kick back for a minute-- and feel better about myself lmao”

They squirmed against him again, feeling his fingers uncurl against them, and rewarded him with another kiss.

“so work with me here… alright?”

Mallek tilted his forehead towards theirs. “alright; for now; that = alright;”

The pair eased back into the act-- there was an edge of abandon that was missing from Mallek’s movements, but it was fine, it was good, and Cirava leaned into the easy rhythm of it. They felt out the edges of their body’s response, breathing into the tensing of their muscles under his fingers and the pleasant ache that accompanied it.

On a whim, they shifted, rolling to their side and bringing one arm to rest across his chest, and pushed lightly.

“what--”

“stop” they said.

He did. Not jerking back, this time, but pulling away cautiously. Cirava fixed their attention on his shoulder, the point where his collarbone hit the slope of it, and on the heavy evenness of their own breathing, until Mallek was resting back on his heels, peering down at them with a look of vested concern. 

“hey; are you--”

“look i said i was down with this lmao” There was a subtle chill to the room, and for the first time, they picked up on it, shivering. “so it was great, but im done now”

“yeah; ok; but are you--”

_ Are you alright? _

But the absurdity of asking must have struck him, because he didn’t finish. Cirava gathered themself up and sat next to him, the bare skin of their legs and their exposed bulges standing out against the fabric of his jeans. They pulled him into a kiss with a hand tucked under his chin. He shifted against them, reluctant.

“what” they prodded, “you gonna pretend like you dont want this?”

They nipped, teasing, at his jawline. He grinned, settling back into the casual ease that seemed to be his default state.

“nah;” he murmured, “ i != gonna stop you;”

By the time their fingers found the button of his jeans, he was leaning into the touch and keening softly at their every touch. They fumbled with the closure and he reached down to assist, but they brushed his hand away. Button undone, they tugged the waistband over his hips.

The pair repositioned themselves through a series of spectacularly uncoordinated maneuvers, ending with Cirava shoving Mallek unceremoniously against the back of the loungeplank and straddling his legs. They struggled with his pants a little longer, until the garment was bunched around his thighs.

They dropped down onto his lap. “fuck it”

That would be good enough.

He tilted his head up to kiss them and they indulged him, savoring the way the hard ball of his piercing skimmed across their palate. Reaching between his legs, they cupped the curve where his bulge was already bowing outward against his slit. They fondled the mound, judiciously applying pressure to the long narrow opening, slick with arousal. Two hard little rounds bit into their palm and they withdrew their hand in surprise. Peering down, they glimpsed a pair of slender silver rings set at the lip of his slit.

Mallek grinned at their surprise, flashing a hint of his fangs. “heh; you want me to tell you where the rest are; or should that = a surprise;”

Rather than reply, Cirava rendered the question moot, as a moment’s more coaxing brought his bulge unspooling from its confinement, and the other piercings were revealed: small barbells with smooth ends arrayed in pairs near the base of his bulge and something heavier further down the shaft, obscured by its curling and twisting movements. They leaned in close to his ear.

“freak”

He chuckled.

They ran their tongue along the base of his jaw, just under the ear, before pulling away only enough to swing one leg over both of his, straddling his hips, their bulges splaying against his abdomen. In the process, they stole a look at his expression, which would have been entirely too self-satisfied, if a similar smirk had not been playing at the corners of their own mouth.

They let their weight settle into his lap before rolling languidly into him. Below, his bulge slithered against them, playing along their slit and the entrance to their nook, punctuated by the flick of that last piercing.

Desire pushing up against the edges of his concern, Mallek panted, “you sure you wanna--”

“shut up lmao”

Mallek took this well enough, eyes glinting with anticipation.

Raising themself far enough off his lap that they could work one hand down between his legs, they grasped the shaft of his squirming bulge. He let out a growling moan. Groping along the slick length, they shifted their hold towards the tip, until the shaft narrowed. With a shiver, they realized that last piercing was resting against their hand, cool and hard. They refused to hesitate. They guided him up towards their nook, back arching as the writhing tip wedged inside.

Blindly, they urged more of the bulge up into their entrance, deeper and deeper, barely even pausing to gasp as the smooth metal of the piercing slid inside. Somewhere in the process, Mallek had laid a steadying hand on Cirava’s waist. Their arms drifted back to his shoulders, leaving his bulge to delve deeper by its own undulations and the rocking of their hips. They rested their weight on his thighs, the coarse fabric of his jeans behind them, while their own members snaked across his belly, leaving glistening trails in their wake.

With the piercing inside them, its true shape became exceedingly clear-- a bar with two rounded ends-- as with every squeeze of their nook, every curl of his shaft against their insides, it pressed into their flesh, shifting and sliding with each breathless release.

Cirava gazed down at Mallek through their lashes, and he met their eye with a look of  _ reverence _ , reaching up to stroke their cheek.

“starshine;” he murmured, “how can i touch you; how can i even look at you;”

Nearly at their very core, the tip of his bulge nudged against something, sending a twinge through their entire body, and they curled into his shoulder, hearing him grunt as their nook convulsed around his shaft. The pair clutched each other, gasping, as further prodding against that sensitive spot elicited waves of clenching pleasure from them.

The paroxysm subsided as the tendril found its mark, lodging itself tightly in their seedflap, leaving the two joined as closely as physically possible. Cirava lapped at Mallek’s collarbone, tasting the sheen of their own blood there and letting their fangs play along his skin as he panted against their ear. Below, his shaft began to pulsate, sending genetic material up into them even as their own body reciprocated, the two mixing into slurry inside them somewhere. They urged him on, grinding against him, but didn’t bother to rouse themself from his shoulder.

Finished, his shaft slumped inside them, retracting somewhat, its weight loose and slick. There was a pressing fullness to the slurry in their gut, but Cirava ignored it, letting themself nestle against Mallek’s chest, limbs heavy, eye drifting closed as his fingers teased through their hair, claws trailing along the scalp.

“fuck; gonna need a bucket;” he mumbled, but he showed no more inclination to act on this than they felt.

They shifted closer, his bulge slipping a little further out of their nook in the process and making them reluctant to move any further. Even if the two were little more than strangers, swimming in the physical after-effects of sex, the intimacy of it was such that the mere thought of relinquishing it sent them burrowing closer.

“bucket; ablution; food maybe;” he speculated.

This time, he shifted beneath them, signaling that he actually intended to follow through. When Cirava did not respond, he nudged them lightly on the shoulder.

“cmon; starshine;”

They scowled. ”what the hell” they huffed, “is that name”

Grumbling, they nonetheless raised themselves enough to crawl out of his lap, letting the rest of his bulge slide from between their legs in the process, only to grimace slightly at a twinge from the slurry inside them.

“see;” he chided.

Mallek laid over on the loungeplank, fishing beneath it with one arm until he brought out a somewhat dented metal pail. The urgency for release had built up such that, when he had stood the receptacle up and helped them kneel over it, they gasped at the sensation of the liquid rushing from their nook. The stream tapered off, the last remnants of slurry trailing down their thighs.

“fuckin mess lmao”

“i mean; we just fucked;” A crease appeared between his brows, less out of concern than confusion as to why they would even care.

They guided their twin bulges back up inside their slit to settle at the entrance of their nook, and gathered up the clothes they had shed earlier. When they turned back, Mallek had pulled his pants back up, his own bulge presumably likewise sheathed. He shot Cirava a lopsided grin.

“it = chill if you vape; by the way; i != have a problem with it;”

“oh nice” They returned his grin opaquely.

So he knew about that. They didn’t bother objecting and they didn’t bother asking how. They followed him to the ablution block, where he motioned them in.

“after you;”

He did not follow them inside. There seemed little point in modestly now, on either of their behalves, but less point bringing it up. Cirava cleaned up, not letting themself linger too long on the process. The bandages on their arms got wet, but those needed to be redone anyways, they had bled through. The cuts beneath were a nagging ache, now that there was nothing to distract from the feeling.

Mallek caught them on the way out and sent them back to perch on the side of the ablution bowl as he redid the bandages. He worked carefully, gently, keeping his attention fixed on the task. And not, therefore, on Cirava. As he finished, they caught his chin, tilting his face towards them, and he met their eye. It was the third time that night he was looking at them like that, looking  _ u _ p.

“hey,” they smiled, a precise blend of genuine and practiced. “thanks”

“sure; i mean; it = no problem;” he stammered.

They slid off the edge of the ablution bowl and edged past him towards the main block. As expected, the ablution block door swung shut behind them.

Returning to the loungeplank and to the cylindrical gripsack of their stuff, they pulled out their rig. Mallek had said it was cool, and while they hadn’t entirely come down yet, they weren’t intending to do so any time soon. Flopping down on the loungeplank, they saw to this, until the whole world was comfortably a few seconds and a couple inches away. Not more than that, though, they still had to figure out how to keep the whole streaming thing rolling.

A palmhusk caught their attention, lying on the floor not too far away. It wasn’t theirs, but then, they weren’t going to post from his accounts or anything. They snagged it.

Swiping through the menus, however, they scowled. Never mind accounts, the device didn’t even have chittr installed, nor any way of installing it, for that matter. They nearly tossed it away with a sneer when a notification at the top of the screen caught their attention.

The text was heavily abbreviated, if not outright code. Either that or it was nonsense, and their host didn’t seem like the kind of person who would set up his palmhusk to spit gibberish at him. No sign of what app the message had come from, and the usual taps and swipes elicited no reaction before it was replaced with another, equally obscure message.

The palmhusk was snatched away, and they looked up to see Mallek’s face way closer than they had expected. He didn’t look angry, exactly, but he definitely wasn’t pleased.

“whats with the nonsense feed you got here” Cirava asked him.

He didn’t even look down at the device.

“nothing; it = nothing anymore;” His voice sounded absolutely exhausted, suddenly.

“anyways” they went on breezily, “i gotta keep the tunes spinning… so my followers dont think i actually offed myself lmao”

Cirava shrugged. “but all my tech is back at my hive” They looked up at Mallek with a grin. “think you could do me another favor”

“yeah; i got something; lemme grab it;” Mallek headed off towards the ladder leading to a loft on one side of his hive.

Cirava watched as he went, expecting him to pull out the palmhusk and check the messages that had come in, but he didn’t. He moved fast for someone who had looked so tired so soon before, with a gait that could only be described as  _ bounding _ . He was back as quickly as he left, offering some sort of, by the look of it, highly modified tablet.

“like i said;” he explains, “this place = off the grid; some stuff wont work; location trackers and whatnot;”

“whatever” they gestured vaguely. “i can just tell my fans i was kidnapped lmao-- by some freak who broke into my hive”

Mallek tilted his head curiously. “you upset about that?”

“nah... its cool” They found one hand reaching for the fresh bandages on their other arm and pulled it away. “weird... but cool”

They reached out languidly to take the device and swiped through the specs and installed programs. Again, it was missing most of the apps Cirava considered standard. They scowled.

“you got something against social media?”

Their host shot them a look that was maybe more of a glare than they had been expecting, and was definitely more pointed than anticipated.

“yeah; actually;” he spat.

Whatever  _ that _ meant.

Then, turning away, he continued. “lemme know if there = an app you need; ill shoot it your way;”

They rattled off a quick list, to which he seemed somewhat nonplussed, and moments later, the icons appeared on the tablet’s main screen. Mallek drifted off to make food, and Cirava fell into the routine of maintaining their whole… thing.

The music stream still had some time on it, so they headed over to chittr. Better to get that over with while they were still sufficiently buzzed. They only had a handful of accounts blocked. They couldn’t afford more. Not even the mountain of comments about their quadrants, or worse, the kind of replies they got on pictures. They just had to allow that stuff. Encourage it, even.

_ Be nice _ , they reminded themself,  _ say as little as possible _ , as they found themself writing a lengthy reply and deleted it. They skimmed through the rest of their mentions, sticking to responses of about five words or less. GrubTube comments got a similar treatment. They were the perfect parasocial butterfly.

They had to restart the stream to manage it from the new device. A shame, it had been running for almost six perigrees, since that last software update, a personal record. The necessary files were on a handful of grubs in their gripsack, they had downloaded them on the way out. The switch went as smoothly as it could, and Cirava set about smoothing ruffled cluckbeast feathers when it was done.

Next up, finish that new track they were going to debut. But with their head resting against the arm of the loungeplank like that, the tablet propped up on their knees--

One foot slipped off the loungeplank and they were half-roused, enough to see the pure white serpent-- Mallek’s lusus-- wind its-- his?-- way towards them. Reaching out to greet him was terribly, terribly difficult. It occurred to them that they should, that it would only be polite, but before they could actually follow through, his smooth belly was running over their ankle, their knee, their hip. He raised his head up from their chest, forked tongue flicking out, and at last, they were able to bring one hand up to offer him. Whether he approved or not was unclear, but he settled around their shoulders and chest as they drifted off to sleep.

When they woke, they caught Mallek looking down at them. He didn’t avert his gaze immediately, but the nature of it changed, became… what? More guarded?

Being seen, Cirava was used to. Invited it, even. But not in person, never in person, and especially never when they could look back. For once, that became blatantly clear. They inspected the experience, turning it over in their mind. It… wasn’t bad? Maybe.

Maybe not bad when someone looked like  _ that _ , like his whole world orbited around them, even though he didn’t seem to know what to make of it.

Mallek cleared his throat. “dinner = ready; i made pasta;”

Cirava looked down at the assortment of data grubs, cables, the tablet, and the coiled lusus that was scattered over their body. Getting up would mean disturbing it all. But getting up also meant food. A dilemma.

Reluctantly, they shifted the various objects aside, easing the lusus off their shoulders last before shuffling to the meal block, where Mallek handed them a bowl of pasta and the two leaned against the counters to eat.

“so... you one of my fans?” Cirava asked.

Mallek stared down at the food on his fork. “you ask a lotta questions;”

“yeah well” they retorted, “you dont give a lotta answers”

“right; so remember how i sold you some stuff a while ago; tech stuff;”

Cirava gave an approving sort of shrug.

“well; you linked me to your stuff; several times;” A private little smile played at one corner of his mouth. “i put it on while i = coding; it = nice;”

The smile dissolved into an opaque sort of concern as he looked back up. Right. The stream. That was how he’d found them earlier in the night. One more branch of thought to prune to keep avoiding all the things they weren’t thinking of right now.

They smiled. “glad you dug the tunes lmao”

Mallek appeared deeply unimpressed by the show of good humor. The two finished eating in silence, and when they asked about dishes, he indicated an impressive stack of other such dishes to which they could be added.

“well shit” they chuckled dryly, “arent you worried youre gonna run out of clean ones lmao”

“no; it = fine;” He looked like it was distinctly  _ not _ fine, whatever “it” was. But before they even had a chance to decide whether or not to pry into “it”, he went on. “if you want to crash; that = cool; i have stuff to work on;”

With that, he retreated up to the veritable nest of computer equipment that functioned as a workspace in the loft space of the hive.

Night was nearing its end. The windowed wall overlooking the city had begun to darken in response to the first hints of pre-dawn, the city lights dimming behind shaded glass. Unspeakable exhaustion had been sneaking up on Cirava since their arrival, and they probably couldn’t put it off much longer. They returned to the loungeplank, checked in on their stream, making sure that it was set to run through the day, and didn’t even bother getting up again before letting sleep catch up to them.


	3. Chapter 3

Over the next few nights, Mallek found himself falling into a sort of routine. He still worked and slept at all hours, but having someone else around to cook for meant that meals happened on at least a semi-regular schedule. Cirava, for their part, stayed likewise occupied, presumably doing whatever needed to be done to maintain their small musical empire; apparently including livestreams, as he’d seen them chatting to an invisible audience with a particularly cultivated affect several times. It wasn’t really surprising, he supposed, that they showed such a strong work ethic. Accomplishing what they had required it.

The two talked occasionally, when they came to intersecting points of their respective patterns, exchanging casual banter that avoided the obvious heavy topics, and fucked a couple of times, when Cirava initiated. Mallek was too aware of the potential for this to turn bad to make the first move, but he found their show of agency convincing enough to assuage his doubts.

It was all so… shockingly comfortable, and he found himself haunted by the thought that  _ maybe it could just stay this way _ . It had crept to the forefront of his thinkpan, most recently, as he watched his his hiveguest curled up on the loungeplank down on the main floor, his lusus wrapped around their shoulders. The snake seemed to have taken quite a liking to them.

_ Pity it couldn’t last… could it? _

He pushed the speculation aside.

Cirava, with what seemed to be an uncanny sense for knowing when they were being watched, grinned up at him. Totally insincere, and the falseness was like a needle through his bloodpusher, but they owed him only as much honesty as he had shown them, which was not much.

“hey” they greeted him.

He leaned against the railing separating him from them. “hey yourself;”

“your lusus-- he got a name?” they asked, running a hand over one pale coil.

“no; he = a snake;”

“my viewers were wondering” they waved towards the tablet they were holding, “is all”

He shrugged, making his way down to the lower level. He wasn’t fond of talking down to them. “he != capable of talking; it != possible for him to tell me his name;”

“i called mine vespidae”

Coming to the base of the stairs, he saw the exact moment when they cut off that train of thought, and was not surprised at the subsequent quick subject-change.

“you clean up around here” they asked, “like… ever? cause i had to sit with my back to the window” they indicated the spot with a lazy head-tilt, “to get any kind of decent framing-- and the lighting there is totally wack”

He glanced over at the window. The lighting didn’t seem especially bad to him, but then, he wasn’t a webcam.

“no; it != important; not anymore;”

He looked back and they were  _ there _ , one hand grabbing the front of his hoodie-- a little shocking that they had gotten so close so fast.

“what the hell” they hissed.

“huh;”

Mallek was caught in their glare, in the vast unspoken anger of it.

“you think i dont get it-- dont know what it means” they continued, “that youre not doing shit for the future cause you dont expect to be here”

“oh;”

They had noticed, then. They had put the pieces together.

“not to sound like a bitch-- but dont you get it” they said, their voice low and dangerous, “how bad itll fuck me over if you off yourself”

Mallek blinked, taken aback. “oh shit; no; that != the deal;”

“then what the fuck” Cirava snarled, their grip not letting up in the slightest, “is the deal”

“i != ditching you; i != have a choice;”

But he realized as he said it that it was a lie. He  _ did _ have a choice-- he could report in properly, or he could… what, run? Not much of a choice, but a choice nonetheless. A choice he had been putting off making.

Understanding dawned in their eye, and they bared their fangs. Maybe they would yell, or take a swipe at him. He waited, making no move to stop them. Instead, they shoved him away with a growl. He watched their shoulders, retreating, hunched.

Did it matter? he wondered. Did it make any difference that this wasn’t what he wanted? They were still in the same awful position, and he had put them there.

_ Always too little; always too late. _

Cirava spoke halfway over their shoulder. “how long?”

“the summons = for tomorrow night;”

“tomorrow” They turned to inspect him. “youre kidding right”

But there was no sign that they thought he could be kidding. They buried their head in one hand and Mallek expected to see tears when they looked up, but they were smiling, which was worse.

“just my luck lmao”

“i != going; i never wanted to;”

He looked away, down, flushed slightly. It was that old shame, again, at last. But made worse now because it sounded like a lie.

“so... what” Cirava asked, “you just gonna sit here waiting?”

Mallek sighed. “i dunno; the drones = the biggest problem; i = working on overriding their systems;”

“oh shit”

“that = a dead end though;” he continued, oblivious to their interjection, “there = something funky about their signals; it = all just a jumble;”

“the  _ fucking _ drones”

Mallek was pulled from his descent into technical ramblings by the raw alarm in Cirava’s voice. For once, they looked as upset as he suspected they really were, fangs bared and claws clenched in fear and  _ anger _ . He wanted to reach out, to reassure and calm them, but he subdued the urge. He had no  _ right _ to do so.

“yeah;”

“why didn’t you tell me” they spat.

“I didnt want you to worry; and--”

_ \-- and I didn’t want to face it; _

The cowardice of it stung. Knowing that it hung in the air, whether he said it or not, stung worse. He looked down at his hands. Nothing, none of the options remaining to him, felt  _ right _ .

It occurred to him how very alone the two of them were. If he had joined the revolution; if there had  _ been _ a revolution; it might not have been the two of them facing down the whole Alternian empire. They would probably both be dead.

Mallek tried to appologize. “i = sorry; i dont know what to do; i should never have dragged you into this; that = a mistake;”

“right lmao” Cirava cut him off. “a mistake”

They shifted a bit, almost pacing. “cause my life was such a breezy fuckin lawnmeal when you showed up”

“i mean; i didnt;” Mallek stuttered.

“shut up” they cut him off again. “you got any other surprises-- that i should maybe know about”

They crossed their arms and glared disapprovingly at him.

“there = this one thing;” he began, hesitantly.

“fuck” They looked, if anything, even less impressed with him. “just spit it out”

Mallek ran a hand through his hair. If he just said it, then it would be out of him, not burning a hole in his gut like a load of sneakbeast venom. Yet he could not entirely ignore the voice in his head urging him to keep hiding it, that if he just said nothing, it would all go away.

_ And look how well that turned out; trying to outrun drones with less than a day to prepare. _

But most of all, they deserved to know.

“i knew about you; before; i saw everything;”

It took them a minute to put it together.

“you mean--”

Cirava reached, perhaps instinctively, for the patch covering one eye socket, and seemed to read assent in whatever they saw in Mallek’s unwitting response.

“well fuck lmao” They failed to hide their shock and alarm behind a customary smirk. “so what do you mean-- by saw everything”

“there = a livestream;” he explained, “on the dark web; someone hacked your webcam;”

“and you watched it” they continued flatly.

He had been wrong; getting it out in the open didn’t make things more bearable. On the contrary, now he had to face himself as Cirava must undoubtedly see him; as a voyeur who had watched them suffer and done nothing.

“yeah;”

“why”

He didn’t want to answer. All the answers sounded like excuses.

“tell me” they instructed.

The distress of the initial realization had worn off, and they were glaring at him again; sharp but not, he realized, particularly angry.

“why did you keep watching”

They took a step forward.

He found himself fixed by their gaze, and compelled to meet it. He pulled himself together and tried to give them the explanation they wanted. “it seemed right; somehow; that there = at least one person watching who cared; that i knew how bad shit really gets;”

“wow lmao” they tilted their head idly, “that’s kinda… fucked up”

Mallek grinned nervously. “i guess; that = just how i roll;”

They were up in his face again, one hand splayed on his chest. He wasn’t surprised when they kissed him, and he couldn’t claim that he reciprocated merely because he was caught off guard. He pulled away, taking a step back.

“this != going to fix anything;”

Cirava snorted somewhat indelicately. “sure its not”

Sliding past him and sinking onto the loungeplank, a wicked grin played across their lips. He knew he didn’t have to seat himself beside them, didn’t have to pull them close for another kiss, fingers reaching for the back of their neck and thumb against their jaw. He could have stayed focused on the impossible task, could have walked away and done-- what?

When they swung their legs up across his, it was unexpected, but not unwelcome; likewise when they shifted to lounge across his thighs. Granted such proximity, he let his fingers tangle in their hair as they rested their head against his shoulder. It was so casual; so like he had seen them countless times over the last few nights; slumped in the loungeplank working away at the tablet; he almost expected them to grab the device and go on doing whatever it was they did with it.

Instead they fixed him with a lazily imperious glare. His breath caught in his throat.

“dont” they articulated, “lay a finger on me”

The goldblood gave him a particularly pointed smile. “got it?”

What exactly did that mean, he wondered, when they were sitting in his lap? Even so, he nodded.

“good”

They reached down, pulling their leggings over their hips and shifting and shimmying until the waistband was bunched around their knees.

In keeping with their earlier relaxed demeanor, they showed no particular signs of arousal. Nevertheless, Mallek’s eyes followed their claws as they trailed towards their slit, yet he made no move to join them; that, at least, was definitely off-limits as per their recent edict. They worked languidly, almost sleepily, tracing meandering shapes between their legs and along their inner thighs.

Mallek felt his own breath quicken; he bent to kiss them, but hesitated; was this, too, forbidden? With a grin, Cirava finished the motion he had begun, and he bit hungrily at the corner of their mouth. When they pulled away, settling back into their earlier position, he saw that the motions of their hand had become more focused on the narrow gap of their slit, increasingly bright gold against the surrounding skin.

They flicked their gaze to him for a second, to make sure he was paying attention, most likely, then ran one claw directly down that vivid line, arching their back as they did. Halfway through, their bulges spilled out and they relaxed, hand resting in the hollow of their hip.

Feeling oddly compelled, not out of embarrassment, but perhaps, a sense of restraint, Mallek looked away. His legs below them were growing damp, and their skin was warm through their clothes against the arm he had wrapped around their waist.

They grabbed his chin, with a scowl, claws digging in lightly. “what-- dont like what you see?”

“that = kind of the opposite of the problem” he mumbled.

Cirava let out a little hiss of amusement. “cute lmao”

They nipped lightly at his jaw. “but keep watching” they purred, “i wanna see you squirm”

Looking down obediently, Mallek saw they had a solid grasp on one shaft, while the other wrapped itself around their wrist. There was an offhand familiarity to the way they handled themself that made his breath catch, rattling, in his throat. Everything was too tight, too heavy; his clothes, pants especially, their weight on his lap, the command they had laid on him and his uncertainty of what, exactly, it entailed.

“starshine;” he breathed.

They fixed him, momentarily, with a look of exquisitely crafted malice before kissing him, allowing a brief respite as he occupied himself with their mouth.

He felt each shift and grind of their hips on his thighs as they continued to knead the bulges between their legs lazily. He felt the tingling pressure of a flush spread across his face, and let out a sort of half-whimper, half-moan, but he needed no prompting, this time, to remember not to look away. He wished that Cirava would kiss him again, would give him something to focus on besides his own frustrated desire, but they were not so obliging.

With a few more strokes, they released the grasp on their bulges and withdrew their hand from the slick tangle between their legs with a murmur of satisfaction. Breathing slow and measured, they leaned closer against Mallek’s chest as the signs of their arousal-- hot skin and writhing bulges-- ebbed away.

Reaching up with the hand stained with their own amber fluids, they ran two claws along his jaw, leaving a wet trail in their wake, until they had his chin tipped back on the pair of sharp points.

“and that” they said, punctuating the phrase with a curl of their fingers that might have drawn blood, “is the price youve paid for not telling me all this shit earlier”

Mallek shivered as the ocher streak cooled.

Cirava continued. “so now you can stop being hung up on what you didnt do and just--” the faintest hint of a smile flickered on their lips, “deal with it”

“oh;” he breathed.

“hows that for not fixing anything lmao?”

They released his chin and he kissed them again, realizing about halfway through that this was probably the wrong thing to do, but he couldn’t pull away from the eagerness in their response before it ran its course, fingers tangling in their shirt at the slightest shift of their weight against him. The two parted, reluctantly on Mallek’s part, and he reached up to brush some of the mess of hair from their brow.

“thanks;”

“yeah well”

Cirava pushed up from his lap, pulling their leggings up in the process. They hardly bothered to look back as they left the room.

“im gonna… get cleaned up” they said over their shoulder as they disappeared around the corner.

Mallek wondered if there was something he could have said, or done. He sighed. It wasn’t the sort of thing he could afford to worry about, right now. They needed a plan, a means of escape, some way of evading the drones. And he had very little to work with.

As he stirred at last, rousing himself from the loungeplank to go dig through files, he realized how damp the spot on his pants had really gotten. He should probably change them, he figured, and revised his mental to-do list to include this.

Before he could stand, the world exploded in a flood of light and shattering glass.

Mind reeling and blinking furiously to clear his vision, Mallek staggered to his feet. The first thing he managed to make out with any clarity was the hulking, spiked shapes of the drones.

_ Why-- How? _

Mallek’s Letter of Ascension had specified that he was to appear the following evening, he still had time, he  _ had _ to. They  _ couldn’t _ know he was planning on running, his security was too--

His gaze lit upon the tablet his hiveguest had been using, lying propped against their stuff. It was  _ right there _ , not fully secured, and he had said what he had said  _ out loud _ , right in front of it, without even thinking.

Some sort of beam seared the air just over his shoulder as he threw himself out of the way. The drones were between him and the shattered wall of glass that had, moments earlier, been a window, but if he could just get past them--

And then he spotted Cirava, returning from the ablution block, and all thoughts of a solo escape drained from his thinkpan. He wasn’t going to ditch them. He couldn’t. He wasn’t that person anymore.


	4. Cirava: Remember.

You spend your nights trying not to remember and mostly you succeed.

Recently the list of things you’re trying not to remember has gotten longer. Like why you’re crashing on a loungeplank in the uptown hive of a relative stranger. Those memories are pretty fresh and you feel their presence stalking you like beasts set loose in the hive. You’ve been pretty high since then-- it gives you distance and you need the head start.

But then you round the corner coming back from the ablution block and see the hulking shape of the drones black against the city lights outside and it’s all over.

You remember everything.

You never saw the drones clearly, but you never needed to, everyone knows what drones look like. But you know what they sound like, up close. They sound heavy, like the taste of blood.

A hot bright streak hits the floor a ways from you, scorching it. That’s not right. They didn’t open fire. You made sure they had no cause.

No.

_ That’s _ not right.

They fired once, but not on you. On your lusus. Vespidae.

They tried to protect you, and you couldn’t stop them.

A troll slams into you, shouting, pushing you back around the corner you just came from, and a realization hits you. He’s going to die and you can’t stop him, either.

You’ve already dragged him down with you.

You tried not to. You tried to cut away all the parts that made you dangerous-- to others, to yourself-- strip away the ballast and you could float, safe, on the acid-bright wings of your music.

You remember that first cut.

You didn’t know whether you were going to survive it but it didn’t matter because the alternative was worse. Being made a helmsman was worse.

Sitting on the floor, under the nest, stoned as far out of your mind as you had ever been at that point. You’ve gone further since, but at the time, you were afraid that if you pushed it any more, you’d pass out and wake up to the drones hauling you away. As it was, you felt like you were floating, looking down on yourself as you went through with it.

As you just went and shoved a knife in your eye.

Fuckin sick, man.

Mallek is trying to get you to run to the elevator. You don’t think it’s gonna do you any good, but you do it anyways. Before you can reach the possible escape route, another searing beam from the drone behind you flies past. Mallek grabs you, again, pulling you away from the blast, and when you look up, the elevator control panel is a sparking, smoking wreck. So much for that, then.

“there = a rocketboard; up in the loft;” Mallek pants.

The stairs to the loft are--

You flick your gaze over to check and yup, the drone is now between you and there. Figures, right?

Mallek tugs you back behind the corner. The drone can’t get a clear shot on you, here. Not yet. But it still doesn’t give you room to breathe, just gives you a chance to feel how all the air’s sucked out of the room.

You woke up on the floor with a knife jammed in your eye and realized that you weren’t done. You had to reach up and take hold and yank it around. Hurt like hell, but the worst part wasn’t the pain, it was the everything else. The feeling or sound, you don’t know which, of the knife scraping against the bone of your eye socket. The pulses of psionics around and through you. The resistance and then terrible lack as the blade cut through you didn’t want to think about what.

And then at last that final flare that meant it was over, you won the stupidest fucking prize from the stupidest fucking game, but you won, and as the rush of fiery energy that signaled that victory left you, you granted yourself the bitter consolation of blacking the fuck out.

You’re not going to win again, not this time. You’re out of things to give up, out of things to cut away to get the drones to leave you alone. There’s a relief in that, too.

You tilt your head back and laugh mirthlessly. Mallek, the panicking and doomed troll beside you, pries his attention away from the corner around which the drone is due to emerge and gives you a look, kind of confused and concerned.

“dude; what the fuck = this;”

“its over” you tell him, “were gonna die.” You’ve got your back leaned up on the wall the two of you are pressed up against, and you slide a little ways down it. “we cant do shit”

He gives a low growl, fangs bared. He’s not ready to give up hope, you guess, but he’s got no reason not to.

Not that it’ll do any good, but you should probably be working harder at staying alert. The past and the present keep getting tangled up in one another, and you could be doing more to pull them apart, but you aren’t.

You woke up on the floor again with a knife jammed in your eye, again. Even though it was all over, you still had to go through the ordeal of pulling it out, and what was worse you had slept through the high and had to do it sober. Somehow your body had gotten used to the blade being stuck right where it was and when you so much as touched the handle a surge of agony ran through all the way from your scalp to your toes leaving you sick and shaking.

You didn’t want to pull the knife out. If you could just leave it, if you could just stop having to hurt yourself. You are so tired, so tired of it and you just wanted to curl up and be done. But you were too weak to move, the knife in your eye like a pin sticking you to the floor. You might die when you took it out, but if you didn’t? You definitely would.

Live or die, taking it out was gonna be fuckin epic.

So you did it and it hurt like a bitch and then later on you guess you woke up on the floor yet again but at last the knife wasn’t still stuck in your eye.

Maybe it was all for nothing if you’re just gonna die like this though. Another laser shot from the drone flies past the corner, the hulking steps getting closer. Beside you, Mallek is tapping away furiously at his palmhusk. It doesn’t seem to be having much effect on the situation.

You don’t like that, the idea that it was all for nothing, but what’re you gonna do, cry about it? No point in that. No point in anything, not even getting angry.

Anger? You don’t even know her.

No.

That’s not right.

You know anger.

You  _ know _ anger.

You spend your nights trying not to remember and mostly you succeed, but it makes no difference. Anger claimed you, body and soul.

_ Your _ anger.

When you turned the knife on yourself it followed, running along the blade through your eye and burning on down, devouring as it went until it had all of you, every nerve aflame against your flesh, bright until it went forever dark.

You thought it had burned itself out.

But it didn’t. It planted itself, grew roots, flourishing and festering as you tried not to remember it, and bursting forth in agonizing blossoms when you didn’t succeed.

From that first time you turned it against yourself, you could never fix it on another target. No matter where you tried to pin the blame--

\--the ones who hunted you; the ones who abandoned you; the one who preyed on you; the one who failed you--

\--it always misses the mark, twisting, turning back towards you. You try to silence it, try to push back as long as you can, but it’s already under your skin. You  _ know _ that you have no one to blame but yourself.

You were the one who went too far. You were the one who expected too much. You were the one who made yourself vulnerable. And now, as the drone steps around the corner and Mallek freezes, you are the one who forgets that you have nothing left to fight with.

Nothing but anger.

Once more, you try to throw your anger at the drone, and once more, you can only turn that anger inwards, where it bursts into flame.

As the flare of pain that flooded your vision ebbs and you recover from the rebound of your malfunctioning psionics, you realize that things have gone far worse than you even knew they could go. The drones aren’t going to kill you. A collar snaps around your neck, a point at the back driving sharp into your flesh and then-- by drugs or signal waves or whatever, you don’t know-- you are banished once more from the clear space behind your eye, into darkness.

Robbed of the outside world, you have no choice but to turn inwards, into the charred and empty space you have made of yourself.

But it isn’t empty.

In that final moment as you fade from consciousness, you see it, bright against the dying of the light. The thing your anger grew from, the seed lodged somewhere deep inside your heart, which you tried so hard to forget.

The other half of you.

The part of you that wanted more. The part that believed in something better.

You cast it aside because you  _ had to _ \-- you had to survive, and it was killing you. But you couldn’t get rid of it, you buried it away inside yourself but it grew, rooting in the dark until it would spring forth, perennially, burning as it sought a way back to the surface.

You gave it up to hold on to the scraps of what you had, the hollow, burnt-out shell of a life that the thing you were giving up had already laid to waste.

But you don’t have that anymore.

You have nothing, now.

So you reach out

and take hold

of that fiery spit of--

_ hope _ .


End file.
